


His Duty Calls

by Manchanification



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Character Deaths, Duty, F/M, Gen, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Honour, Sacrifice, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manchanification/pseuds/Manchanification
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair answers the oath that cannot be forsworn. Mild mentions of romance, but intended as a character development piece.,</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Duty Calls

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I wrote this. Just popped into my head one morning and went 'write me!' and nearly 10,000 words and a few days later, here we are.
> 
> It's been a long time since I've written something angsty, so feedback would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Warnings for character death and Trespasser DLC spoilers.
> 
> Enjoy! (If that's even the right word)

It began, as all Wardens’ callings do, with a nightmare.

Within the plush confines of a four poster bed, deep in the labyrinth of Denerim palace, King Alistair slept fitfully, twisting and tangling, breathless gasps on parted lips as calloused and scarred fingers grip at fine linen sheets;

_The deep roads are well named, a dark, twisted, airless and endless series of passageways that wind deeper and deeper into the earth’s crust. It’s here that King Alistair finds his consciousness, staggering through the dark, the remains of a broken shield on a shattered arm. There’s no light to guide him, his torch burnt out long ago, eyes straining into blackness as the bloodless fingers of his arm brush cold, damp walls. The air down here is close, stale, unaware that there’s an entire world above it filled with light and wind and life, of scents of meadow flowers and grass and baking bread. In the deep roads, the only scent to be found is moulder and blood, dankness clinging to walls._

_There are bodies in the passageways he stumbles on through, heavy feet bumping against half rotten corpses, his brothers and sisters who have given their lives before him. The further he goes, the less form those corpses have, less bloated, rotting flesh on those deeper down, the rattle of dry bones the only noise that greets him when he disturbs them. He wonders how he, of all people, could have gotten this far, out of shape and lacking in conviction now, the long years of his reign destroying any self-belief he’d had in himself as a warden; a heroic, honourable defender of the people given way to a bumbling fool of a leader, always trying his best to do right by his people, but never quite understanding how to get there._

_They won’t miss him, he knows, drawing his sword as his ears pick up the sound of heavy footfalls that aren’t his own. They’re too fast, too sure, too steady to be the echo of his own numb feet and it takes every ounce of will left within him to pull the steel from its sheathe, his torn muscles protesting as he raises the weapon once more._

_The darkspawn are on him within moments, a flurry of movement in the darkness, and he can barely see them, fighting off blows announced moments before they fall by the whistle of blood stained iron. He’s gotten good at this, he supposes, anticipating the attacks, listening for the movements of his foes rather than watching for them, estimating their proximity by the stench that clings to the foul creatures. But his own attacks are getting slower, his parries weaker, and before long he’s fighting purely defensively, his remaining good arm almost as useless now as the shattered left and he knows with clarity that this is it, that this is the end of good King Alistair.  
The sword takes his neck before he can raise his own, serrated, rusty iron tearing through muscle and sinew, his still hot blood pouring forth as the blade is wrenched from him, staining his armour and it’s the first warmth he’s felt in an age. It’s the first time he’s felt alive in just as long, every sensation suddenly pinprick bright and detailed, colour filling his vision even as it fails, the heat of his blood warming his chest even as his body begins to cool._

_He’s not quite gone. Not yet. He knows his neck is torn open, half severed, unable to support the weight of his head and he crashes to the floor, listening to the creak of the darkspawn’s shoddy armour as it raises its sword high to finish him._

_A dagger in the darkness to end his pain. Not the one he was expecting, but one all the same and he doesn’t know whether its relief or terror that floods through him, the emotion flickering through dying nerves as the blade pierces through his back._

He wakes with a scream on his lips, the sweat that’s gathered on his brow forming a damp film as he scrambles upright, tangled so tightly in his blankets that he struggles to extricate himself from them, only succeeding to do so with a hard tug that leaves him bare on the sheets.

Quiet follows, only the sound of his own heavy breathing breaking the air and he sits up slowly, feeling his heart pounding in his chest and trying to calm it so he can hear his own thoughts properly. Because it’s just a nightmare, he tells himself, just a nightmare and when his heart finally slows, the music in his mind is so faint, he can almost believe it. But there’s a headache at his temples, faint and throbbing, that he tells himself is just because of a night of disturbed sleep. He’s just tired, is all, tired and shaken by the dream and when he pulls back the curtain of his bed and crosses to the window to open yet more curtains and shutters, it seems like truth.

The sun is shining beautifully, casting soft golden rays across the gardens, mist rising from the ground glistening in the early morning haze that he’s so used. He sighs and smiles, and tells himself once more that it’s nothing but a dream, because the calling doesn’t come on a day like today. It comes on days with storms and rain and clouds, not days that begin within beautiful sunrises. Not on days when his manservant walks into his chambers, surprised but delighted that he hasn’t had to rouse his king from his usual deep slumber, pointedly ignoring his nakedness and chattering away as he always does. There’s a joke in his tone as he asks his lord what was so wrong to have him up so early in the morning and Alistair shakes his head and smiles lightly;

‘Nothing. Just a bad dream.’ He smiles.

And he almost believes it.

\--

The nightmares come again.

Every night, without fail, image after image of bloodshed and death and violence, darkspawn and his own shattered, exhausted body, endless fighting and endless tunnels and all the while the knowledge in the back of his mind that this is it…isn’t it?

He wakes often, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the middle of the night and when he does, he lies awake, staring at the blank canopy of his bed, heart racing and limbs trembling, afraid to sleep again. Sometimes he’s woken by Joren, his manservant, shaking him awake from horrific images, always concerned but safely distant from him, always urging him to see the healer, that maybe someone can brew a potion to help him sleep easier.

He always declines, says it’s stress or something he’s eaten, waves his concern away with a laugh that sounds more fake, more strained each day.

By the end of the second week, he knows there’s no point in summoning a healer. The music is faint, but there. Undeniably there, and the headache wavers, changes, shifts, but always present in some part of his mind, distracting, annoying, worrying.

In the third week, he sends a letter to Teagan. He doesn’t want to, his uncle only just returned from dealing with the Inquisition in Orlais, but if this is it, he needs to make plans. Someone will have to take the throne, preferably someone more suited to it than he himself is.

Teagan arrives two weeks later, unamused by the summons, and it’s only the presence of his brother, Eamon, still an advisor though more just a habit now, that quietens him in his nephew’s presence.

‘Your Majesty,’ he greets, with a bow that’s almost mocking and its clear he’s tired and irritable, ‘I know you are desperate to speak on the subject of the Inquisition but I thought my letters were sufficient.’

‘I’m sorry, Teagan.’ And he is, really, for dragging his uncle from his long trip without a chance to rest, but the problem is greater than his uncle’s now. ‘But something’s come up and I needed to discuss it with you. Both of you.’

‘Alistair,’ Teagan sighs once more, prompting a raised brow from his elder brother, ‘the Inquisition will be Divine Victoria’s peacekeepers. They’re no longer a threat.’

‘It’s not about the Inquisition.’ There’s a glass of whiskey on the table, a crutch he’s weighing on often these days, and he reaches for it, taking a sip of the burning liquid.

‘You really shouldn’t drink at this time of day, Alistair,’ Eamon scolds lightly, ‘people will begin to think you have a problem.’

‘I do,’ he replies candidly, taking another sip, ‘just not the one they think.’

Teagan scoffs quietly. He’s been in a foul mood ever since he’d sent him to the talks in Orlais, and although he understands his uncle’s distaste, he wishes he could complain less. He’d have sent someone else, if he’d thought he had anyone else to trust.

‘Well my king, don’t keep us in suspense, what’s this problem we must be present to solve?’ Teagan bites, and the ire in his voice is enough to make him feel small and stupid again. And really, maybe he is, for thinking that this matters. There’s no one else who’s anywhere near what he’d call a friend, and maybe it would just be kinder to slip away quietly the night, and let them work things out on their own. But that would be irresponsible, and duty dictates that he not be. Maker knows duty is the only thing left these days.

He stalls as he looks to his not-quite-uncles, the only thing resembling family that he’s ever had.

‘I…uh,’ he clears his throat, taking a drink again, ‘I need you to begin looking for my replacement.’

Two pairs of eyes roll instantly.

‘Oh Alistair, not this again, really,’ Eamon scolds, ‘you’re a grown man, not a child. Stop trying to shirk your duties as king.’

‘I’m not trying to shirk,’ he growls back, anger roiling in his temples fuelled by his headache, ‘I’m trying to do what’s right for Ferelden.’

‘No, you’re trying to run back to the wardens again. They don’t need you Alistair and even if they did, from all I’ve heard they’re tearing themselves apart as it is. There won’t be anything left to go back to. If you want to do what’s right for Ferelden find a blasted wife and produce an heir.’

‘Eamon, I’ve told you this before…’

‘Yes, yes, wardens can’t have children. I’d be far more convinced of that if I’d seen you actually trying. Instead you insist on mooning over a dead woman who didn’t have any interest in you in the first place. Perhaps if you’d behaved more like a prince, Lady Cousland would have been.’

It’s a low blow, the lowest he could’ve struck at, and Eamon knows it the moment the words are out of his mouth. He suddenly snaps his jaw shut, aware of the damage he’s done, and at the very least, he has the good grace to look abashed.

Teagan shakes his head, stepping forwards, trying to smooth over the subject as he does;

‘Look, Alistair…’

‘Out.’ His voice is barely above a growl, low with his anger as he struggles to decide whether to shout or cry. Neither of them move, though uncertainty is present now. He’s never given them an order before. Not like this.

‘…Alistair…’

‘I said, out.’ He snarls, aware of what he must sound like, must look like, sat at his desk with anger on his face and whiskey in his hand, but he doesn’t care.

‘Your Majesty…’

‘Out!’

He’s never raised his voice before as king. Not once, choosing instead to channel his anger into sarcasm when he can or to hide it when he can’t. But things have changed, and he doesn’t care to do either. If they want him to be king, they can damn well follow his orders.

Hesitation follows before they both offer a bow, retreating from the office and leaving him in painful silence once more.

The headache is pounding now, angry tears stinging his eyes and he squeezes them shut against the salt that threatens to spill, his hand so tight on his tumbler that the glass groans under his hand. Breath heaves hard in his chest, fury making his heart flutter wildly and he knows that they’re his uncles, not his subjects, but why can’t they listen just once? Why can’t they understand that he needs their help now more than he ever has before?

He’s utterly alone in this, he realises. He hasn’t spoken to the wardens properly for years, even those he once travelled with, and even if he did…what would he do, or say? There’s no one there to call a friend, even Oghren’s teasing grew hesitant and paltry after a while, though he knows it’s just as much his own fault as anyone else’s. Perhaps only his fault.

Elizabeth Cousland had died over ten years ago, sacrificing herself to bring down the archdemon and he’d never really recovered from that loss.

Not that he’d had any right to mourn her so. Anyone would think that they had been lovers, the way he’d grieved for her but, no, they weren’t. Not properly. He’d loved her, of that much, he was certain, because how could he not love a woman who was beautiful and brave and smart and funny and selfless and strong and fierce and fearless and…her.

How could he not?

But those feelings hadn’t been reciprocated. Or…not publicly, anyway. Oh she’d been fond of him, that much they all knew, but she’d never been willing to take it any further than fondness and the memory of his awkward admission made him cringe once more.

_‘Do you think you might ever…feel the same way?’ he asked, hands focused on his gauntlets, the specks of rust between plates suddenly the most interesting thing in the world, now that he had her attention. His heart was hammering pathetically hard, desperate for the affection of a woman he had known less than a year. He didn’t know if it was love…not yet, but it was something…_

_‘Alistair, I already do.’_

_His heart leapt at softly spoken words, tight in his throat as he lifts his gaze to meet hers, unable to keep the smile off his lips. She likes him too, Maker, he didn’t understand how, but there was a beautiful woman before him, all he had ever dreamed of, and it might not be everything, but it was something._

_But her expression makes his own smile falter. There was no hint of happiness as he was experiencing, just quiet determination on his face, and he didn’t know what to do with that._

_‘But…’_

_‘No, no buts, Lis, please. Can’t we just leave it as we already do and go from there. In, you know, a positive way. Please don’t tell me I’ve been an utter fool, I know it’s what I am but…’_

_‘Alistair,’ her small hands take his, pulling off his heavy gauntlets and the lighter leather gloves he wears underneath, holding her bare palms against his. ‘I would do. I want to. But now’s not the time, you know that. We have a blight to face. We could both die tomorrow.’_

_‘But doesn’t that mean that we should make the most of what we have now? Just in case we do die tomorrow?’_

_She smiles, warmly, sadly._

_‘I can’t Alistair, you know that. I’ve been trying to avoid this. I didn’t want to hurt you. But I can’t, not yet. We have to put our duty first and these sorts of things will only distract us, or make it harder if one of us does perish. I can’t hurt you like that, better you know now before things go too far.’_

_He knows that what she says makes sense, but he still can’t hide the disappointment sitting heavily on his chest now._

_‘I…yes,’ he lets her hands slip from under his own, ‘…you’re right, of course you are. Duty first. I just thought…’_

_‘Alistair…when all this is over, if we’re both still standing, we can follow our hearts then. I want to, I do, truly. When Ferelden is safe.’_

_She steps forwards, a soft kiss pressed to his cheek and hope reignites in his chest, a dull flicker but there. He smiles coyly as she steps away again._

_‘Then I’ll make sure we both survive this.’_

_‘I hope so.’_

He had believed the words then, believed that if he hoped hard enough, prayed hard enough, fought hard enough, then they would both still be there at the end, alive and ready to give in to their hearts.

He wished he had the same optimism now.

But Elizabeth was dead, had been the moment her sword had pierced the archdemon’s throat and no amount of hope or prayer changed that. No amount of it would change the outcome now either. His calling was here, and one way or another he had to come to terms with that.

\--

He waited a few days before attempting to speak with his uncles again, letting his anger calm, though with every sleepless, nightmare filled night that passed, he knew his temper was growing worse. The song was there now, in the back of his mind, a low hum that was undeniable and if he didn’t tell them now, there might not be enough of his mind left to help them prepare for his replacement.

He calls them to a meeting again, waiting in the same chair, the same office, noting the same stack of paperwork that he hasn’t yet got around to reading through waiting for him. He vaguely considers burning them all before a knock on the door distracts him and he calls for his uncles to enter and they do so hesitantly, wary and almost sheepish. The gossip of the palace was his foul mood as of late, his restless nights which everyone seemed to know about and, most recently, the dark circles beginning to form under his eyes.

‘Your Majesty.’ His uncles greet formally, and he sighs at their choice of wording, knowing that they’re on edge now.

‘I’m still Alistair, you know.’ For now, anyway, he thinks.

‘Well that’s a relief,’ Teagan quips, ‘we were beginning to worry out king had been replaced by someone ill tempered.’

It’s meant as a joke, but it only drives home just how off he’s been acting lately, although he wonders if they’ll blame him when they learn the truth. He glosses over the comment.

‘As I said the other day, I need you to start looking for my replacement, and quickly,’ he holds up his hand, cutting Eamon off as he opens his mouth to protest again, ‘it’s not up for discussion. I don’t know how soon, but you’re going to need a new king. Might be a few weeks, might be months, but you will need one.’

‘Alistair, you can’t abdicate now. The Theirin bloodline…’

‘Is dead,’ he interrupts, ‘and it may as well have been since Cailan died. I’m of no use to it.’

‘You speak as though there’s no hope, if you would just find a wife…’

‘I won’t live long enough to get her pregnant, even if you did find someone I was willing to marry, and even if, by some miracle, I could make her with child.’

That makes them stop, and guilt twists in his chest as he looks at them now, worry replacing frustration and pleading.

‘Alistair?’

He sighs again, leaning back in his chair, rubbing at tired eyes. The skin beneath his fingers feels thin and frail, and he lifts his hands away sooner than he likes, afraid that it’ll tear if he’s too rough with it. He’d seen the information that the Inquisition had recovered on about the calling, how it was just as much a physical decline as a mental one. He wished they hadn’t and he could’ve lived blissfully ignorant, thinking he’d have a celebration and head down into the deep roads whole and hale to take down as many darkspawn as he could. Not falling apart, clinging onto life as it faded, watching yourself slowly decay.

‘You…know of the calling, don’t you?’

There’s a pause, realisation on their faces with that simple question, before they both nod hesitantly.

‘Then you know that time is limited.’

‘How long do you have?’

‘No idea. Weeks, maybe a few months, if I’m lucky. But it’s going to happen, and I’d rather leave for the deep roads before I’m reduced to little more than a ghoul.’ He tries a smile, but it’s tight and humourless and neither of the other two men even try to return it.

‘Then, how long has this been happening?’

He pauses, bites at his lip, thinking.

‘A little over a month, I would guess. It’s…getting hard to tell.’

‘The staff say you’re not sleeping well.’

‘Nightmares,’ he explains, standing from the stiff wooden chair to pace slowly, inactivity wearing at his nerves. ‘They haven’t stopped since…well, since they started.’

‘And are you well otherwise?’

‘Well I have a headache that feels like there’s a woodpecker trying to break through my skull, but other than that, it’s fine.’ He smiles humourlessly again.

Another pause breaks, before Teagan nods to himself.

‘How would you go about finding your replacement?’

‘As any other position to be filled would. Put out the word that the King is hiring an heir and see what we get. But they’ll have to prove themselves. I’m not choosing someone based solely on their connections.’

‘And what do we tell them?’ Eamon asks quietly. It’s the first time he’s spoken since the news, the first time he’s lifted his eyes from the ground, and there’s sorrow written into the deep lines of his face.

‘The truth. Ish. I’m ill and won’t recover. That I intend to leave the throne before I’m not fit to sit on it, if I ever was. Make up something about warmer climes, if you like.’

‘You intend to go to the deep roads then?’ Teagan asks.

‘I won’t die sat in bed, clinging to what’s left of me, uncle. I took an oath to the wardens and I’ve broken most of those to fulfil Elizabeth’s wish for me to become king. But I won’t break my final oath. I will die as all wardens should.’

‘And this is what you want?’

He sends the younger of his uncles a scathing look at that.

‘Since when have the decisions I’ve made and the paths I’ve taken ever been about what I want?’

‘Alistair…’ his name is spoken quietly, in a tone that might have been soothing if it weren’t for the disbelief in it, and he glares at his uncle once more.

‘Yes?’

‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’ Teagan murmurs, crossing to him to clasp his forearm and he looks down at the hand, how Teagan’s bony fingers grip at him.

It hurts; beneath the layers of his clothing, he can feel his arm ache and bruise, though the pressure isn’t much and he simply nods to his uncle before drawing his arm away.

‘Me too.’

\--

Weeks pass by in an agonizingly slow haze that consist of the same activity, day in, day out. He wakes early, unrested and fearful, struggling to rise as his increasingly tired body protests. His manservant is always on hand now, watching him warily as he struggles to get out of bed, though he never says anything.

But Alistair can’t help but notice the way each day, he’s a little closer, a little more helpful than the day before, as if his strength is completely failing. It’s not, yet, though his training sessions are getting more and more difficult, his sword heavier as his muscles begin to weaken, his movements slower as his senses begin to dull, making it difficult to react.

A look in the mirror, nearly two months after the song in his mind began, and he confirms what he’d feared. The dark circles beneath his eyes are painfully obvious, his skin growing grey and lifeless, thin flesh clinging to the hard lines of his face, leaving him gaunt. Even the bright streaks of blonde and red in his hair have grown dull, no shine to the strands as he attempts to style them so they might lend his look more vigour. Instead, they lay limp against his scalp, more than a few coming away as he runs his fingers through the formerly thick mass.

It hurts to stand before the mirror nude, though he forces himself to do so, noting how his once full, curved biceps are fading, how the hard lines of his chest and stomach are softening. The only lines of his body becoming more apparent are those of his ribs, and he reminds himself that he must eat, even if the food put before him has barely any taste.

He feels sorry for his cook, who once thrived under his praise, one of his favourite staff for providing him with copious amounts of full flavoured food that he was so reputed for eating. The man tries harder each day to make something that will stoke his appetite once more, new recipes and ingredients, and he’s tried to explain, more than once, that he needn’t. It’s not the chef’s fault that his nose and tongue are failing. The man tries regardless, and he appreciates the gesture because despite the announcement of his supposed illness, they all know that the day cook stops trying to please the king is they day they all admit defeat.

It’s strange to see the effect that the news has had on his household staff. Those who were never fond of him have, as he expected, given up any pretence of wanting to serve him, doing so now with the minimal effort and respect they can get away with. They’ve been reprimanded more than once by their respective seniors, but it makes little difference when Alistair himself won’t care to correct them.

The rest of them though, the chambermaids and waiting staff, his seamstresses and tailors, guards, grooms and even those he barely remembers have a role, have doubled their efforts, an attempt on their part to ease the suffering that’s dominating the long winter of his death. It’s one of the few things that cheers him and he still attempts to smile at them, to engage in polite conversation and offer jokes, even if his lips crack and his throat his made sore every time he does so.

He turns away from the image in the mirror, the discoloured skin of his torso, how the bruises on his skin aren’t fading and he stops himself from looking any lower than his navel. It won’t do him any good to note the prominent lines of hip bones, or the way his unmentionables are just as mottled and unpleasant to see as the rest of him.

It hardly matters. It’s not like there’s anyone to look at him nude, nor had there ever been, other than his attendants, and he wonders just how many kings of old have died as virgins. It might just be his honour alone to die so pure, not that he’s ever going to let anyone know that. Maker knows that that’s not going to change now. The flirting of court women, batting eyelashes and shy, tempting smiles, had dried up with the news of his impending death and for the first time in over a decade, he was left without the unwelcome attention. He wonders now if he should have just taken that opportunity, rather than waiting, recalling Zevran’s words so many years ago that if he waited for the perfect girl, there was a fair chance he would die alone.

He hated it when that elf was right.

There’s no point worrying about it now though, and he pushes the pang of regret aside, moving to dress himself, letting Joren fuss over his hair when the man appears, until it looks a little more presentable, golden red strands brushed carefully to give the appearance of volume as it grows ever thinner.

\--

There are letters on his desk still. Stacks of them, despite having handed most of his duties off to his seneschal and stewards, so that he could attend to the matter of finding his replacement.

Ah.

But that’s what these were though, weren’t they? Carefully penned letters of self-recommendation from every noble and heir in the kingdom, all claiming how sorry they were to hear of his declining health, how they were eager to offer any support they could. And curry favour with him in the process, no doubt.

He lifts the first from the top of the pile, scanning quickly before rolling his eyes, tossing it instantly into the pile for burning. It was a steadily increasing pile, and he wonders at just how many nobles there are in this small country to have amassed such a sizeable amount of parchment. The pile of those he was considering consisted of a meagre handful, and of those he had selected, no one screamed ‘just and fair king for all of Ferelden’s many types of people’. He picks a few more out, performing the same motion of scanning each letter quickly, before noting that at least two of them are from people he’s definitely discounted already. He frowns, making a mental note to have someone sort through them for duplicates and multiple offers and burn them along with the rest. He hasn’t the time or patience for it these days, the song ever louder, loud enough now that he struggles to focus on those who are speaking to him directly.

A gentle knock on the door, soft, reverent, alerts him to someone’s presence and he calls to them just as quietly, thanking the maid when she delivers yet another pile of letters and he takes them wearily. There’re from various high ranking nobles of other countries and, to his surprise, one from Empress Celene, flowery words of sorrow at the news of his demise penned so carefully that he knows there’s another meaning behind them. He doesn’t care to go looking for them, setting the note aside for another and he recognises the symbol of the chantry instantly.

From the office of Grand Divine Victoria.

It’s debatable whether he wants to know what she has to say on the subject, if it’s even been written by her own hand, but he supposes he owes it to her. He’d never really understood the woman, but she’d always been pleasant, friendly even, though he’s not seen her in years and her communications are few and far between.

The wax on the fine parchment breaks with a crack as he opens it, pulling out the slip of paper inside. The writing isn’t hers and a surge of anger pounds through him, that after everything she can’t be bothered to write her own letter of porcelain masked platitudes. It’s only the smaller note, folded in half on a delicate strip of crisp white parchment which he finds a moment later, that eases that, the spidery writing that flits across the canvas the one he recognises as hers;

_‘My dear Alistair,_

_I cannot begin to express on parchment my grief at hearing news of your ‘terminal illness’. I assume I am right in concluding that your Calling has finally begun and there is nothing that can be done to avoid it. It is a wretched thing to write this letter to you and to be able to offer no more than the assurance of my own sorrow of the news, but there is little more I can do now._

_Divine Victoria cannot be seen to favour a nation, even on this most personal and saddest of occasions and I know that you understand this._

_I hold you in my thoughts, my friend, and I pray to the Maker every day, that he might watch over you on your final journey of this life, and into the next. It is my hope that He will guide you into the arms of those whom you’ve held dearest, that you might receive the love and family you have always deserved._

_Until we meet in the next life,_

_Leiliana.’_

He doesn’t want to weep. He doesn’t want to give in to the urge that’s crowding his chest, that’s making his throat constrict and his eyes sting. It’s not appropriate, not acceptable, not kingly enough for a man in his position, but as his eyes scan the note again, he can’t help it.

He flees from the desk, away into his personal chambers through quiet passages less likely to be patrolled by guards, until he can finally slam the heavy wooden door of his bedroom closed. There’s a thud as the wood meets his back, knocking air from his lungs as he does and it only serves to help the overwhelming urge to let his tears loose. Tears blur his vision as he turns his eyes to the ceiling, a failing, final attempt that he knows is pointless when he feels the first sting of salt at the corner of his eyes.

It begins slower than he expects, a slow trickle of tears coursing over his cheeks, steadily falling thicker and faster until there’s a constant stream winding down his fragile skin, collecting beneath his chin to drip onto the fine cotton of his clothing. The trail of liquid on his cheek burns as it falls, a constant itch that he can’t ignore even as his shoulders shake and his chest heaves.

He hears his own sobs, his gasps for air between broken, heavy notes, as if from afar, giving into his own weakness even as he curses himself for it, chides himself for being weak and selfish, for not handling this better. It’s his own fault anyway. This is what he deserves for letting her die.

It should’ve been him. It should’ve been him, the one who wouldn’t have been missed, because they all knew he should have been braver, should have been better. Stronger, faster, a better leader, a better warden, a better man, a better king. Because that was all it boiled down to now, wasn’t it? That he had never lived up to anyone’s expectations.

And through all the moments he sat curled against the door, he knew he never would be better than he was, because if he was able he would be doing it, not sitting here and self-pitying, just as he always did, the constant ‘why me?’ that came to mind every time someone asked something more of him. Never able to face up to the challenge.

It was why he was alone now, why the people who he believed should care weren’t with him to comfort him, his friends and family that had never really existed.

But that too was unfair of him wasn’t it? Because Leiliana cared and she had shown that, and it wasn’t her fault that she wasn’t here. Nor was it Teagan’s or Eamon’s that he pushed them away nor everyone else he had ever shut out because of some strange sense that it was for the best. He could’ve had the friends he wanted, if only he hadn’t been so judgemental or so needy or so…him.

His face hurts from the tears, muscles aching from the strain of the sobs on his failing frame and even as he wipes them away with his shirt sleeves, they keep falling. All he can think is that he must deserve this, to sit alone when all he wants is a pair of warm arms around him to tell him that it’s alright, that he’s loved and wanted, that he’s not as much of a fuck up as he’s convinced himself he is.

He's never felt more alone and he’s never felt like he deserved it more than in this moment, selfish to the end of his days when he could’ve been something more.

\--

The very beginning of the very end comes sooner than he expects. Somehow he had thought this stage of slow decline would last forever. But maybe that was just because the days, broken only by a handful of hours of restless sleep, felt like an eternity.

The song is in his mind, crowding his thoughts, jostling to be heard when he makes his announcement to the court.

In the long throne room he stands before the nobility of Ferelden, all of whom already know, that he will be stepping down as king, that his health is too poor for him to continue to be an effective leader. The words are relayed into the town centre, criers carrying his message through Denerim and no doubt from there, the words would spread across the countryside and into the wider world. If it cared to listen.

His replacement stands at his side, his face suitably sombre as he announces him as his replacement, his reign to start the day after tomorrow. There’s no ceremony for the changeover. He can’t bear to stand in front of all those faces for any longer than he has to. He can see eyes roaming over his wasting figure as it is already, somehow able to pick out mutterings about how terrible he looks, how he should’ve stepped down sooner or could have avoided this whole thing if he would’ve just had a child.

He steps back to let the soon-to-be king, and his wife, make a speech, the first of many he’ll give in the next few weeks and Alistair doesn’t envy him, no matter how proficient and confident he seems.

The man’s words are distant as he speaks, as if he’s standing around a corner and speaking to him, and he nods politely as the man acknowledges his current king, thanking him, commending him, offering aid as social convention dictates. He smiles thinly at each, barely able to focus now, the song singing through his mind as if he’s in the middle of an opera house. He forces it back as best he can, excusing himself as soon as its polite to, making to leave the room as quickly as he can, feeling eyes on his back as he walks.

His hands are trembling, breath short at his attendant falls into place at his side, concern on his face, though he won’t question him here, for fear of showing his king to be weak. They all know he is now anyway, but he appreciates the gesture as the door leading back to his quarters is held open for him.

As if the sound of the door closing behind him triggers his decline, the world falls away, his breath suddenly short, his head spinning. His feet are numb, useless beneath him, his legs too tired to support his own weight and he falls, the hard stone of the palace’s floor rushing up to meet him. He lands heavily on his shoulder, feeling something crack and shift, distantly aware of raised voices. There are hands on his free shoulder in moments, voices ordering for the healer to be called, someone calling his name as boots appear in front of him, someone kneeling in front of him, a hand slipping under his head.

They’re trying to lift him, trying to support him, and he tries to tell them that’s it’s fine, that they needn’t worry because it’s too late now anyway, but his body is cold and unresponsive and before long blackness is crowding his vision, the singing loud in his ears, the most beautiful thing he could ever hope to hear as his consciousness fades.

\--

He wakes once more, wrapped in blankets after a night of pleasantly dreamless sleep and a clear mind and he wonders for a moment if the entire thing had been one long, convoluted nightmare.

The shifting of his body confirms it’s not, a dull ache that stretches into every inch of him, his bones groaning. He can barely sit upright, but he manages, looking at the arm he landed on the night before. Most of it is black where it’s damaged, though he can still move it with some discomfort and his fingers flex freely as he tests them.

He's lucky, he thinks, that he can leave now. That he can be in Orzammar in a week or so if he presses his horse, and down in the deep roads to die as he should within days after that. So close to the end now, and he’s scared and relieved at the prospect. The singing in his mind is still there, but it’s different now, comforting, soothing, coaxing him to the end, rather than reminding him grimly that it’s there, and he feels himself shifting, embracing it now, rather than pushing it away.

Joren appears after a moment’s thought, pulling away heavy curtains, Alistair’s clothes in his arms and he nods and smiles at the finality of seeing his armour on its stand behind him, his freshly sharpened sword in its sheath.

He lets the man help him dress, his final duty to his old king, pulling on extra layers to stave off the cold that he feels constantly now. He doesn’t tell him it makes no difference, that he’d walk naked and it would feel no different, save for those around him screaming in revulsion at his deteriorating form. There’s leather on his legs and wool on his torso when Joren’s finished and the man takes the initiative to keep a supportive hand on his Majesty’s back as he makes to his small dining room to eat.

It occurs to him, as he swallows down tasteless breakfast, that he never replied to Leiliana and he feels guilt tug at him. A quick order, and Joren is returning to him with quill, ink and parchment giving him time to scrawl a note in shaky penmanship, a brief letter of thanks and goodbyes. He leaves two more as an afterthought, for Zevran and Oghren, on the off chance that they might want to hear from him one last time.  
A few of his staff gather as he finishes his meal, each offering him a bow, the best thing they can give to him as a goodbye, restricted by convention as they are and he thanks each of them in turn for their years of service before he leaves.

He’s dressed in armour before he leaves the palace grounds, Joren’s assistance invaluable as he struggles with buckles and bindings. It’s with a complete breach of protocol that he pulls the man into a warm, one armed hug, noting his uncles appearing over his shoulder and he smiles to his manservant before he dismisses him.

He’s never seen Eamon show any real emotion before, but there’s a shimmer in his elder sort-of-uncles eyes as he too forgets decorum, wrapping his arm awkwardly around his shoulders for a brief moment before he pulls away;

‘For all your bellyaching, Alistair, I’d have been proud to call you mine, if I could.’

The words, the pride in them, means more to him than he can manage to put into words, so he settles for a quiet smile;

‘Thank you, uncle.’

He turns to Teagan, to be met with a full hug from his uncle, the most affection he’s ever seen from either of them even as the man turns to practicality to cover his emotion.

‘Your affects…what would you like done with them?’

He shakes his head.

‘There’s not much of mine in there. I’ve got everything I need with me.’

And he has, Duncan’s old shield on his back, his mother’s amulet around his neck, and two small figurines tucked into his pockets. He pulls them out briefly, the miniature golem figurine Eamon had bought for him as a child so long ago, and the small grey warden figurine that Elizabeth had given him during the blight.

Eamon smiles at the sight of them, nodding in understanding even as he tucks them away once more.p > ‘And what would you like us to do with the dolls in the office?’ Teagan teases, the first time he’s done so in months and Alistair smiles as broadly as he can, appreciating the humour, the brief return to normality.

‘Give them to someone who might care to remember me. And if there isn’t anyone, I’m sure there’s a child in an orphanage somewhere who might make use of them.’

‘I’ll see that it’s done. I always rather fancied that dragon, myself and I think Conor took a liking to the mabari when he was over last.’

He smiles again, understanding his uncle’s meaning.

‘Well, if you think you can bear the shame of having a child’s toy in your presence, you’re welcome to them.’

There’s a smile again, awkward and faint before Teagan pulls him into a tight hug again. The force of the embrace makes his body ache, but he wouldn’t trade the gesture for anything.

‘Maker watch over your travels, Alistair.’

‘And you, uncle.’

He pulls away as best he can without giving in to the urge to weep, knowing he’ll never see them again as he clambers onto his horse, turning to look back at them over his shoulder. There should be something profound or meaningful for him to say, but he’s never been good at these things, and he knows that even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to say the words for the tears choking them.

A joke seems far more appropriate, somehow;

‘Oh and, by the way, there’s a rather large shipment of The Stinky Orlesian due in any day now. You might want to get it sent back to Val Royeaux before the smell cripples the docks. Or, you know, his new Majesty.’ Fond smiles meet the joke, poor as it is, and he returns it before nodding to his uncles and spurring his horse into a trot before he can embarrass himself further. He’s done all he can for Ferelden as king, all he can do now is do his best for his country as a Grey Warden.

\--

The deep roads are longer and deeper and darker than he remembers. He’s not sure though, if that’s his memory failing, or his senses.

By the time he’d arrived at the entrance in Orzammar, his vision was darkening at the edges, his hearing almost permanently muffled. It was probably a blessing, he realised, that he couldn’t smell or taste anything any longer.

He’d met a few waves of darkspawn already, a few days down in to the tunnels, though there hadn’t been many of them and they’d not been particularly challenging. He wondered if he was a better warrior than he realised these days, or if they were just particularly weak. It must be the latter, he mused, eyeing the torch sputtering in his left hand. There was no way that he was that strong a fighter anymore, not with his body half-aching, half-numb, the occasional points in between maddeningly itchy.

He’d scratched briefly, once, in his first day or so down here, only to realise how much of a mistake that was when he’d managed to destroy most of his ear with the motion. He’d resisted the urge since, reminded of how fragile his flesh was now. Beneath his armour, he knew things were worse, had felt flesh tearing when his movements had been too vigorous in a fight. He hadn’t bothered to bandage any of the wounds he’d sustained, a waste of effort now, when his body couldn’t heal any longer. He knew too, that his face had gotten worse, that he was probably unrecognisable at best, and at worst well…he couldn’t be sure, but he might just be uglier than the darkspawn he was killing now, his lips cracked and bleeding, eyes cloudy and sunken. A brief glimpse into an oddly shiny shield when he’d arrived had shown that one of his cheeks had torn open, grey flesh connected only by red strings of sinew, and he’d turned away in disgust.

He pressed on into the darkness as best as he could with his failing his body, his mind bouncing back and forth between the allure of the singing and fond memories as he walked. He recalled walking through the trees of the Brecilian forest with Elizabeth, laughing at some witty comment she had made, blushing furiously when it had turned to something more risqué. The thought made him long to see her again, hope somewhere deep in his heart that Leiliana was right, that they might, Maker willing, meet again in the afterlife.

He wondered if it would be the same, without a physical body. Could spirits or souls of the dead experience love the same way, or would it be something greater, transcending the pleasure that flesh and blood could bring. He hoped so, perhaps he would be rewarded for being so pure when he arrived.

Still, he couldn’t deny how he wished he’d had that chance here in Thedas, to feel another warm, living body beneath his, to make her writhe in pleasure as his own coursed through his nerves, scorching him to senselessness. It was the only thought that made him cling onto his remaining consciousness now, sword clasped in hand, as he made his way deeper.

\--

They broke his arm. He wasn’t sure how or when it happened, only that after yet another scuffle with a group of hurlocks, his shield had shattered in his hand. The arm that it had been strapped onto hadn’t faired any better, and if there had been any sensation left in the limb beforehand, he was certain there wouldn’t be now. Not that it mattered anymore, most of his body having lost all sensation, lingering pain biting at his senses and itching incessantly where his nerves still fired.

He’d resorted to tucking the useless limb under his belt, vaguely aware of blood soaking through the layers of his armour and he wondered how long before he started feeling the effects. Still, there was little else to do and he frowned as he pressed on into the darkness, blinking near constantly, unable to tell what was true darkness and what was a result of his fading vision. The song in his ears was louder than ever, wrapping around every nuance of his consciousness and it was all he could do to take a moment to steady himself, his function hand straying to the figurines in his pocket. His thumb found the first, tracing over the fine ridges, recognising it instantly and he took strength in the memory of Elizabeth handing it to him nervously, feeling his heart flutter at it and he pressed on with grim determination.

The darkness seemed to somehow get thicker the deeper he went, black and choking until his head span and he was almost gasping for air. Everything lungful was damp and stale, every sensation that he had left pressing in on him. The ground beneath him felt uneven, his tired feet stumbling now, barely able to support him, his shoulders slumping against the walls close beside him.

In the distant depths of the tunnel, something growled and scraped, harsh garbled voices and the singing of rusty iron being drawn meeting him and he pushed off the wall as best as he could, teeth gritted in determination.

He felt like he was swimming, or falling, maybe, heavily and fumbling, drowning in the darkness unable to focus as he moved onwards, clinging to the sound of heavy footsteps, his anchor to this world still. Above the old god’s call, he clutched at the noises, remembering the duty that kept him moving ever onwards, the oath he had made and refused to break. He had promised her he would keep going for as long as he could, no matter how hard it became. His promise, his duty.

They came from the shadow, somehow upon him in a heartbeat, barely enough time for him to lift his sword to ward off the first blow. The hit jars his arm, shaking under the effort of barely defending himself, sending his thin frame rattling. Through will alone he fells the first darkspawn, a lucky swing that slits its throat, the creature falling back into its brethren, distracting, allowing him to press the advantage until he comes face to face with the final one of the small group.

It snarls at him, breath hot and foul as it washes over him, and he recoils briefly; a mistake, he realises, even as he does so, his back foot giving out even as he shifts his weight onto it and it only takes a moment for the hurlock to react, its blade in hand, arcing downwards.

Jagged iron carves through the leather of his armour, shearing through the thick material and the paper thin flesh beneath, stopped only by brittle bone. He hits the ground hard, blood in his mouth and a blade in his ribs, breath leaving him in gasps as he rolls onto his side, fingers reaching blindly for his sword.

Sensation is suddenly pinpoint bright, copper tang in his mouth, the smell filling the air as blood rushes from his abdomen, the gash in his belly stinging, searing, pain twisting through his nerves. Vision returns to him, grey bursting into brief colour, the deep red on his hands as they press hopelessly at torn flesh, the singing in his head falling away leaving him with sharp clarity as cold steals into his flesh. The blood on his skin is the only warmth he’s aware of as the darkspawn steps past him, not bothering to finish the warden writhing on the floor and as footsteps recede, and he’s reminded of those dreams so many months ago. Months that seem like years now.

Silence falls around him again, broken by the increasingly arrhythmic rasp of his breathing, vision darkening once more, colour and light fading as his forehead falls to rest on the ground, dull coldness against his skin. He wonders if this is how it’s meant to be, fight lost in the wake of pain, and still his free hand reaching, not for his sword now, but for the tiny totem in his pocket.

It’s difficult to tell when he finds it, fingers falling numb again, but he manages, muscles cold, stiffening, resisting his mind’s commands as he tugs the figurine free, bringing it to his chest in his clenched fist. He steals a glance down, the worn bone carving in his hand comforting, kindling warmth in his chest as he regards it, the last image he sees before his eyelids flutter closed for the final time.

She’d always given him the strength to do what he needed to; to beat a blight, to wear a crown and now he knew, she’d seem him through to the fade, to the respite they’d always been promised, always deserved.

His oath kept, his duty fulfilled and finally, his love returned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, if you got this far, well done.
> 
> As mentioned before, i haven't written anything other than smut and mild fluff for a while, so feedback would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Kudos etc. also appreciated.
> 
> Thanks again :)


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